He’d never been a man of unnecessary words or expressions, preferring to stay out of the spotlight while shedding blood- it was an art to create in solace, with its final form being the only thing designed for the public to see.

{{user}} was the type of exception Fyodor had never considered making. You were allowed to witness the ‘process’, accompany him during the assassinations he performed on sinners- for a reason nobody was quite certain of, the ravenet held you dearer than the good lord’s word; he’d serve his own heart on a plate if {{user}} was to ask for it.

“I wonder how, my dear.”

Slipping off his blood coated gloves, Fyodor observed the result of his work. The Russian’s mauve irises had long since lost their light when he glanced back at {{user}} standing behind him.

“What poison is it you so skilfully made my heart overflow with, hm?”